Darkly Marked
by fadeoutra
Summary: Years ago June Harper pined for Barty Crouch Jr., her charismatic classmate and occasional tutor at Hogwarts. He was everything she wanted— until he was sent to Azkaban to perish, leaving June to question everything she thought she knew about him. Now he's back, a Death Eater with blood on his hands, yet old feelings resurface once more. Do the marks he left on her heart remain?
1. Shell and Bone

The Triwizard Tournament was over, and a boy laid motionless on the grass. Elated cheers erupted from the surrounding stands and rang out until the crowd realized why the boy had not yet stirred.

He was dead, and Harry Potter wept openly atop his chest.

I was among those in the crowd who jumped to their feet. Cheers quickly transformed into screams around me, and my hands flew to my mouth to muffle my own cry of horror. Only moments ago had we all prepared to applaud the student who was to be crowned victorious. We were ready to congratulate the other contenders for their valiant efforts. A celebratory feast awaited everyone, student and spectator, back inside the castle. This was meant to be a joyous night.

Now one child laid dead before us, his eyes open and peering up at a sky he would never see again.

The fearful shouts and concerned mutters of those around me had a distantly familiar quality to them, like something long buried away, and with the unearthing of it came a terrible thought that struck me like lightning, and I knew that same thought was now running through the minds of every adult here who had lived through an era when this was not uncommon— that this tragedy was the sort that belonged to the era of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

_He's back,_ I immediately thought, _he killed that boy,_ and I began to tremble. But that was simply ludicrous. Impossible. The dead don't come back. Voldemort could not live again, just like Cedric Diggory never would.

The father of Cedric had fought his way down to the grass and now did as Harry had done, sobbing and howling with inconsolable agony atop his son's chest, his voice carrying farther than anyone's. I could not bear to witness any longer. With my hands still stifling my whimpers and my cheeks wet with tears, I looked away, and I glimpsed Harry being pulled from the clearing by Professor Moody.

For a moment I wondered, once again, why such a young student had been forced into the tournament, and now as a result, forced to witness death. It was undoubtedly connected. But the tumult around me grew, more people bustled from the stands, and soon my thoughts were overpowered, leaving me numb where I stood.

Eventually I glimpsed Dumbledore and two professors hurrying in the same direction Harry and Moody had disappeared. Victor Krum and Fleur Delacour were then carried, both unconscious, from the maze.

Someone near me was shouting. When the shouting didn't stop, I reluctantly turned my awareness back to the present, and I realized they were shouting for Dumbledore. "Where has the headmaster gone? We need him back here!"

My feet carried me forward on their own. I'd seen where Dumbledore went, but perhaps I simply wanted to distance myself from the clearing, because soon I was sprinting up the vast stairs to Hogwarts and down the winding corridors. Dumbledore's office would've been the obvious place to go, but something told me he'd be looking after Harry Potter, who I'd last seen leaving with Professor Moody.

I heard voices before reaching the door to Moody's office and knew I'd guessed correctly, but what I saw when I finally crossed the threshold— or rather, _who_ I saw— gave me a shock so tremendous it made my heart falter as I froze in my tracks.

His was a face I never thought I would see again.

He sat bound in a chair against the far wall, evidently breathless from the way his shoulders were rising and falling so heavily. Moody's overcoat sagged from his thin frame. His hair, damp with sweat and darker than it had been in our adolescence, hung in his eyes, which now held my gaze from across the room. Years ago those big brown eyes had been warm when I last saw them, and hadn't been set above such a horrible snarl. His face had lost its youthful softness and become lined with age and horrors. The one thing I knew hadn't changed, without a doubt, was his nose; it had always been ever so slightly crooked.

I could see such traces reminiscent of the boy I'd met in Hogwarts more than a decade prior, but even as my eyes drank in every single inch of him, I still couldn't recognize the man before me as the boy I'd once loved.

Bartemius Crouch Junior stared up at me from under his brow with a malice unlike anything I'd have ever thought him capable of. To my right I saw Dumbledore watching him with equally unsettling revulsion, but Barty paid him no mind.

He only had eyes for me.

There was a time long ago when I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.


	2. The Boy Across My Class

Barty Crouch Junior didn't enter my life until my second year at Hogwarts. Before that, my first year had been almost as average as any other witch's.

I could still remember the overwhelming awe I felt when I first saw that great castle with my own eyes. I'd so longed to walk through those magnificent doors and experience the wonders within after hearing my mother's many tales of her own days at Hogwarts. My father, a Muggle who thought nothing could beat the magic of swing dance until he met my mother, a witch whose footsteps lit up like fireworks when she danced with him, loved listening to her stories as much as I did.

The Sorting Hat effortlessly placed me into Ravenclaw, much as my mother expected from my more peculiar quirks. My father, who thought very lightly of the Sorting, sent me a letter suggesting that I should've been placed into Slytherin or Hufflepuff, as those uniform colors would've better complimented my auburn hair. My mother added her own note in the letter encouraging me to fully enjoy my House, as she herself had been a Gryffindor with many Ravenclaw friends.

And so unfolded a starting year at Hogwarts as typical as any. I practiced spells, cheered on my Quidditch team, spent long hours in the library, and learned to play Gobstones with my new friends in the courtyard. It was on that first Christmas, when I stayed at school during the holiday break to enjoy the wintry atmosphere, that I was gifted the toad I'd been begging my parents for ever since I learned students could keep pets in their dorms. White and green spotted with orange specks, he was a distinguished toad whom I immediately named Buff after the title of his species, _bufo viridis_. I'd felt very clever about that one.

_Here you go, Juniper,_ my mother had written to me, _your very own warty boy!_

My father had added in his curly scrawl at the bottom of the page, _Don't bother kissing him __or anything. H__e doesn't turn into a prince. I already tried._ Below that was my mother's more elegant addition, _He really did, I watched him._

The only particularly exciting thing about that first school year aside from the arrival of my toad was my tremendous head start in the subject of Potions. This advantage of mine was in large part due to my upbringing in a Muggle-dominant town, where my mother could marvel at my father's non-magical hobbies, and where it was too risky for my mother to demonstrate any kind of magic for me aside from brewing. It was then quite convenient that my mother was an exceptionally gifted potioneer, and she eagerly began teaching me potion theory as early as I'd learned to read.

While I worked hard to learn every other subject of magic, it came as a pleasant surprise to find that I already knew every potion recipe taught in first year, and as such I breezed through with hardly a challenge. Professor Slughorn, who taught the class at that time, took notice, and when I arrived fresh from summer break to begin my second year, he took me aside and offered me a spot in his fourth-year Potions class.

Two years was an awful lot to skip, I thought to myself as Slughorn beamed down at me in his office, and I wasn't sure exactly how far forward my mother's teachings had put me, but even as a child I recognized the rare opportunity this was. So I accepted the offer and, in my second year of Hogwarts, I sat among a class of fourth years while the rest of my studies remained at standard level.

It was in this advanced class that I met Barty Crouch Junior.

At first I didn't recognize him as the son of a Ministry official. To me, he was simply the handsome fourth year Slytherin across the room, with hair the light color of sand, lengthy enough that it often flopped into his eyes. My attention was torn from Slughorn's lectures each time Barty ran a hand through that soft, sandy hair, although I never dared to let him catch me looking. I often hid myself by leaning much more closely to my notes than was necessary.

Barty was older, already tall for his age, and I was an awkward little girl, not yet even a teenager. I'd never felt so nervous from simply risking eye contact with another student. It didn't help that my performance in that class was turning abysmal compared to the rest of my curriculum, which crippled my confidence even further.

Slughorn took me aside one afternoon after my assigned concoction nearly became an acidic nightmare and asked if the advanced class was too difficult for me. Young as I was, I panicked, fearing the disappointment I would no doubt bring not only my professor but also my parents if I couldn't meet the potential they'd all hoped to find in me.

"I might only need a bit of help," I hurriedly proposed. "Perhaps a tutor? Just a couple times a week would be enough, I think."

Slughorn's expression brightened and he buoyantly gripped the lapels of his suit. "Why, Miss Harper, if you think the extra effort won't be too much a strain on you, then I whole-heartedly agree! Did you have anyone in mind?"

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "Barty's quite good at potions." And it was true— he was nearly top of the class, just as he was in every other subject, but even as I spoke the words I found myself regretting them. After all, why would someone like him want anything to do with someone like me?

"Splendid," exclaimed Slughorn. "He _is_ quite good, isn't he? I'll ask him before our next lesson and see if he's up to the task. Now, off you go. It's the weekend, my dear, don't go wasting it!"

Needless to say, I spent the weekend mortified at the idea of how Barty Crouch would react when asked to tutor a twelve-year-old who couldn't keep up with his class. I even considered numerous excuses I could use to get out of the next Potions lesson altogether. They were abandoned on the actual day of the lesson, however, and I trudged to the dungeons, unpacking my cauldron at my usual table and bending closer than ever to my parchment of notes just to avoid any glimpse of Barty.

"So," came his voice from right in front of me, and I jumped.

"Oh!" I cried, looking up and nearly tipping my bottle of ink. Barty was leaning against my desk, elbows on the blacktop, his face level with mine.

"So, I heard you need extra lessons," he continued, his brows slightly raised at my overreaction to his presence.

"Oh," I said, knowing how daft I looked. "Oh. Yes, I— er, Professor Slughorn spoke to you?"

"M'hm. I can do Wednesday and Thursday nights, before dinner. Does that work?"

"Yes," I answered without really knowing if that worked for me or not, though I made a mental note to clear my schedule if I did have anything on those days.

"Great. Professor Slughorn has given me permission to use the classroom, so we can meet here an hour before dinner starts." He began to turn back to his own table, but stopped halfway. "It's Harper, right?"

"Yeah. Juniper works, too."

"Er." Barty frowned. "Is it Harper or Juniper?"

"It's both. I mean, it's Juniper Harper— or June— or just Harper, that's fine, too." I smiled awkwardly and willed myself to stop speaking.

"Right," was all Barty needed to say to effectively end that conversation before he returned to his spot across the room.

I found myself trembling ever so slightly during the course of the lesson after that, and it wasn't until fifteen minutes in that I realized I hadn't heard a word Professor Slughorn was saying about the benefits of using lionfish spines.


	3. Barely an Echo

Not a single word was uttered among those of us who now occupied what had only moments ago been assumed as Professor Moody's office. It would've made for an unbearable silence if not for the distant, muffled wails from the commotion that still lingered far below on the castle grounds. If my attention had not been so preoccupied, I might've wondered if one of the cries I was hearing was still that of Cedric's father, but Barty Crouch held my gaze with such a blazing intensity that even my very thoughts were ensnared by him.

Part of me wanted to run to him and make certain he was real. I wanted to free him from the ropes that were binding him. I wanted to touch him, to hold his face in my hands, to lose myself in those dark eyes just as I used to so very long ago.

Another part of me wanted to turn and run the other way. I wanted to run from the room, and I wanted to never stop running, because this part of me knew he was somehow connected to the horrifying tragedy I'd just witnessed— to the dead child lying on the grass below.

Yet all of this was overshadowed in my mind by a single desperate question: _how could he be here at all?_

The sound of footsteps approached from behind me and, with great willpower, I finally tore my eyes from Barty's gaze. I'd only barely stepped aside to allow passage before Professors McGonagall and Snape hurried past me to join Dumbledore. It wasn't until then that I realized Harry Potter, injured and unsteady, was standing at Dumbledore's side.

Snape paid me no mind. McGonagall, however, spared a glance over her shoulder at me. I assumed she was confused by my presence, but she must have then seen something in my face, and whatever it was she saw, it melted her expression into one of sympathy before she looked back to Dumbledore. I attempted to compose myself and found that the sight of Barty had sent new tears streaming down my cheeks.

As I dried my face with the back of my sleeve, a small house elf darted into the room.

"Master Barty, Master Barty!" came her shrill cry, and I recognized her as Winky, the Crouch family's house elf. I'd met her once before, so many years ago, on the day Barty had invited me to his home to celebrate his outstanding N.E.W.T. scores. She was one of the most attentive and loving house elves I'd ever met. Now she threw herself, disheveled and dirty, to the floor in front of Barty.

"What is you doing here, Master Barty?!" she continued to shriek, her fingers gripping the ends of her bat-like ears and pulling them downward. "You isn't ought to be here! You is getting into trouble!"

Barty's eyes flickered to stare down the length of his nose at her, and his lips curled into a scowl.

"You is belonging at home! You isn't ought to be here," Winky continued, until she put her face into her tiny hands and wept. Barty merely looked away as if she weren't there. I'd never seen him act so cruelly toward her.

"Severus," said Dumbledore, who'd been so still and quiet that his voice surprised me despite its gentle tone, "do you have the potion?"

Snape placed a small vial of clear liquid that I recognized as Veritaserum into Dumbledore's waiting palm. Dumbledore then stepped toward Barty.

"Kindly open your mouth," instructed Dumbledore, and I knew I wasn't imagining the faintly threatening edge to his soft words.

Barty glanced around at each person in the room as if weighing his odds. I didn't know if I could bring myself to duel him if it came to that, but he must've decided the odds were stacked too highly against him anyway, for he gave a cheeky grin before complying. Dumbledore tipped a few drops into Barty's open mouth. Barty grimaced at the taste but swallowed it down nonetheless. I hoped he wasn't foolish enough, for his own sake in these circumstances, to try and resist the serum.

"What is your name?" Dumbledore asked.

Barty locked eyes with him and spoke plainly, "Bartemius Crouch, Junior."

My heart gave a jolt. It was the first time I'd heard his voice in nearly fourteen years. The sound of it, deep and rumbling and just as I remembered, struck me even harder than the sight of him had, and I put my hand against a desk cluttered with magical artifacts to steady myself.

"Son of Bartemius Crouch, Senior," continued Dumbledore, "Head of International Magical Cooperation?"

"Yes."

Dumbledore's voice softened. "And where is he now?"

There was a pause, and then a grin spread widely across Barty's face. "By Hagrid's hut, where I killed and buried him."

Winky's agonized wail filled the room. If not for the constriction in my chest that suddenly kept me from drawing breath, I might've joined her.

Dumbledore waited for Winky to quiet into shaky sniffles before continuing. He questioned Barty about his escape from Azkaban; his captivity under his father; his deceptions while in disguise as Moody; and his successful plot to revive Voldemort by manipulating both Harry Potter and the Triwizard Tournament.

I listened to the interrogation as though from underwater or behind glass. I heard the voices and the words they formed, but it all seemed so apart from me.

Barty had murdered his own father. Voldemort had returned to power. The boy I once loved had just reignited one of the most devastating wars in all of history.

I felt sick.

Winky was still bleating "oh, Master Barty!" through her tears. Snape's brow was furrowed, McGonagall's lower lip trembled, and Harry looked as though he desperately needed to lie down.

Barty merely lolled his head back and smiled. "He will reward me," he said with satisfaction. "I alone was loyal to the Dark Lord. He will recognize me as a hero!"

"The man you worship," muttered Dumbledore pityingly, "has never recognized anyone beyond his own self."

The smirk on Barty's face fell. Dumbledore turned away from him.

"Minerva," instructed Dumbledore, "please go to the grounds and alert Cornelius Fudge of our prisoner. He may want to question Crouch himself. Then I would like you to assist Amos Diggory and his wife in any manner they require."

McGonagall nodded and swiftly left the room, her hand reaching up to her cheek as she rounded the corner.

"Severus," Dumbledore now turned to Snape, "please take Alastor Moody to the hospital wing, and bring Winky along with you."

Snape drew his wand from his robes and conjured a floating stretcher in midair. Then, from a large, open trunk by the wall, Snape extracted the unconscious body of the real Moody with a levitation spell, and he laid Moody prone on the stretcher, which followed him as he then hastened away. Winky, her face shiny with tears, trailed after them, seemingly no longer able to look at Barty.

Dumbledore finally turned to look at me. I flinched, his gaze alone ripping me from my reeling thoughts and thrusting me back into reality.

"Miss Harper," said Dumbledore quietly, "I believe you and Crouch were acquainted?"

It was stunning that he recalled me so well from my academic years. I stole a glance at Barty, who now stared me down as he'd done when I first entered the room. "Yes," I breathed.

"Will you please stand guard here while I take Harry elsewhere? I'm sure the Minister will come about in no time."

The part of me that wanted to run had my body bracing, but I forced myself to breathe. "Yes."

Dumbledore nodded. He gently took Harry's arm and guided him out the door.

Barty and I were all who remained, and the silence between us was broken only by the distant unrest on the castle grounds. My hands began to tremble. I tried desperately to think of what I should say after all I'd just heard.

Then, as he watched me, the tension in Barty's face gradually eased, the corners of his mouth tugging into the very slightest of smiles.

"Hello, June."


	4. Falling

I hardly looked at Barty during our first tutoring session for fear that my cheeks would redden and betray me if I did. He turned out to be an excellent tutor, guiding me through the potion's brewing process, explaining the ingredients and their effects on one another, his instructions easy and concise, and with my long auburn hair always falling in such a way that it hid my face, I made an incredible effort to focus on more than just the simple yet pleasant sound of his voice.

"Nice improvement," Barty said at the end of the hour as he peered down at the bubbling liquid inside my cauldron. "Tomorrow will be even better, yeah?"

I finally looked up at him just in time to catch his encouraging smile before he left for dinner, and I remained behind, alone in the classroom, staring at my cauldron with a pounding heart and thinking of how, despite my anxieties, he hadn't found me to be a disappointment after all.

We continued to meet twice a week with Professor Slughorn's blessing after he, too, noticed my improvement in class. I was delighted to find myself making considerable progress as term went on, and not just with my potioneering: as Barty and I spent more time together, I found it easier to be around him, to meet his gaze, to speak to him and laugh with him.

There was a day when, as we reviewed the errors in my latest brew, Barty became particularly distracted.

"Is that fir wood?" he asked, leaning in to peer at my wand after I'd readied it for an incantation. "Because it looks very similar to mine."

"No," I answered, taken aback. "Mine's cedar."

"Ah. Makes sense, I suppose." Barty had drawn his own wand to compare the differences.

"Why's that?"

"Cedar and fir, they're both in the evergreen family."

This, for whatever reason, made my heart swell with an odd sense of pride.

"What's your core?" asked Barty.

"Unicorn hair."

"Dragon heartstring, for me."

"I've heard those cores are quite powerful, but difficult to control," I replied, hoping to sound casual.

"I bet the prat who came up with that just wasn't any good at spellcasting and needed an excuse." Barty took on a mocking tone. "I swear it's not me, it's the bloody core!" And we both roared with laughter that echoed down the dungeon halls.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, I came to realize just how cherished the sight of his smile and the sound of his laugh had become to me. I began to yearn for it even when he wasn't at my side.

Yet I did not find myself in his company beyond those hour-long sessions. Twice a week we walked together to the Great Hall for dinner after his tutoring, though he always lengthened his stride at the door so we never entered side by side, and we would not speak again until the next session. Even in Potions class, Barty no more than acknowledged my presence with a nod before turning his attention back to his Slytherin classmates. I began to wonder if his good nature toward me was only for show.

"He's a Slytherin, what do you expect?" said Alba one day as we climbed the spiral stairs of Ravenclaw Tower together.

"I don't know," I mumbled, adjusting my book bag over my shoulder. "What should I expect?"

"Oh, come on, they're all tossers. You've seen the kind of pranks they like to pull, especially the older ones. Dark Magic, I bet. My mum's told me loads about what their parents are like." Alba gave me a sidelong look that I pretended not to notice.

Even though we were sorted into Ravenclaw together on the same night, Alba and I hadn't properly met until Christmas break of our first year, when we were two of the very few who'd elected to stay behind and spend the holiday at Hogwarts. With dark eyes, chin-length dark hair, and an olive complexion, Alba had the sort of features that would only sharpen as she became older, and I saw myself as looking rather soft in comparison.

"Not everyone in Slytherin is like that," I finally insisted.

Alba opened her mouth to continue the argument, but we'd reached the door to our common room, and the large eagle-shaped door knocker spoke first.

"What can you keep after giving to someone?" it asked patiently. There was no way to enter the Ravenclaw common room without answering a riddle.

After a moment of consideration, Alba said, "Memories?"

The eagle remained silent.

"Your heart?" I offered, and my thoughts flitted, embarrassingly, to Barty.

"Your word," came another voice, and we both turned to see Jessamy, a black girl taller than both of us and who seemed to embody an inherent grace, waiting behind us. "And then you keep it, hopefully."

"One would hope," replied the eagle knocker, and the door swung inward to reveal their common room, which bustled with other students who'd also finished classes for the day.

"Anyway," Alba persisted as we all crossed the threshold, apparently determined to continue the argument, "I've seen him talking to some of the worst of those knobs. Like that one Slytherin kid in fifth year, the one from the Black family, and you know what their reputation is like— although I think they might be cousins, distant ones, or so my mum says, but still—"

"Are you talking about Barty Crouch?" Jessamy interrupted. She'd sat down in one of the unclaimed squashy blue-cushioned chairs, and now she was undoing the bun in her hair, letting her springy curls fly in all directions.

"Alba doesn't like him," I said as I collapsed into what was more of a squashy love seat across from her. Alba fell onto the cushion next to me, looking defiant.

"You could've asked me to tutor you, y'know," Jessamy pointed out. She was one of the fourth years in my Potions class.

"I know," I said, my tone apologetic, and I really did feel guilty for overlooking her. She had always been very kind to me while others seemed to resent my childish presence in their class. "I think I sort of panicked when Professor Slughorn asked who I wanted. He really isn't bad, though. Barty, I mean."

"I'm telling you," Alba urged a little too loudly for my comfort, "they mess around with Dark Magic."

"But Crouch's father works for the Ministry," countered Jessamy. "He's head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That's the one that catches dark wizards and witches."

"That's his father?" I gaped, no longer rummaging through my bag for my homework, which I'd hoped to distract myself from the conversation with.

Alba raised her brows at me. "Come on, Junie, you really didn't know?"

"My dad's a Muggle, and my mum's never really cared about Ministry stuff," I sheepishly defended. Truth be told, my mother seemed to want to forget the entirety of the magical world, aside from my own part in it, now that it was at war. I didn't want to think about it much, either. My parents did their best to shelter me from knowing the worst of it but I could tell, from the whisperings of teachers and older students, it wasn't getting any better.

"Then Crouch's dad would know right away if he was practicing any Dark Magic," Jessamy continued, pulling me from my thoughts. "He's quite strict, or so I've heard."

Though she still did not appear convinced, Alba let the subject drop.

The murmurings of other students around them became a soft drone that mixed with the crackling of the fireplace, creating the usual comforting atmosphere of Ravenclaw's common room. Alba and Jessamy pulled out their homework and both soon had their noses buried in notes.

Instead of doing the same, I tilted my head back and let my eyes drink in the vast dome of the common room ceiling, where a night sky had been painted in such a way that the stars seemed to twinkle, and I became lost in them, wishing briefly that Barty could see them. I quickly banished that thought, but then I wondered if he was in his own common room now, and I wondered what it looked like, and what his own eyes would see if he were to look around, too, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, at this moment, he was wondering anything about me.


End file.
